


By the Side of My Darling

by guns_and_poses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M, edgar allan poe - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guns_and_poses/pseuds/guns_and_poses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock and Edgar Allan Poe’s <i>Annabel Lee</i>.</p>
<p> <i>The ground beneath him is still wounded. Recently removed. Replaced. The dark gravestone forms the head of his new bed.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	By the Side of My Darling

 

 

The first night that he lies there the moon is beaming.  
  
The wind murmurs through the tree above him, sounds like a gentle fall of rain.  
  
There’s a statue nearby, a winged seraph, her eyes downcast and her hands clasped. Reverence for those who have fallen.  
  
The ground beneath him is still wounded. Recently removed. Replaced.  
  
The dark gravestone forms the head of his new bed.  
  
He looks out low, beyond the branches, through the thin layer of clouds, to a few dim stars.  
  
He sleeps, _really_ sleeps, for the first time in days.  
  
He wakes in the morning, his clothing wrinkled and filthy.  
  
  
~~~~  
  
  
The next night that he lies there the moon is modest.  
  
The wind hums through the tree above him, sounds like a distant waterfall.  
  
The winged seraph bows her head in respect.  
  
It’s clearer, fewer clouds and many more stars. He gazes at them and remembers a question that was asked long ago.  
  
“Beautiful isn’t it?” he whispers.  
  
His breath shudders out of him, again and again.  
  
He falls asleep.  
  
He wakes in the morning, his eyes bleary and sore.  
  
  
~~~~  
  
  
The next night that he lies there the moon is shy.  
  
The wind sighs through the tree above him, sounds like a quiet tide.  
  
The winged seraph bows her head in sorrow.  
  
He finds two stars, a pair of them, a bit brighter than the rest. They are not quite white. Grey perhaps, almost blue.  
  
“Beautiful,” he whispers.  
  
He stares at them and waits for something.  
  
He’s not sure what.  
  
He falls asleep.  
  
He wakes in the morning and looks up at the horrified face of Greg Lestrade, who is standing above him, holding a solemn bouquet.  
  
“I... Jesus _Christ_ , have you... how long have you...” Lestrade pauses, stares, shifts the flowers from one hand to the other, clears his throat, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the–” Lestrade stops, rubs a hand over his furrowed brow before trying again, quietly, “Look, I know you don’t really care what I have to say about him right now, but...” he looks away, “but he was a good man. A very good man and...” Lestrade looks back down at him, “and he wouldn’t want you to do this. You know that, right?”  
  
He lies there, silent, until Lestrade finally walks away. He hears the sound of a phone being dialed.  
  
  
~~~~  
  
  
The next night that he lies there the moon is timid.  
  
The wind moans through the tree above him, sounds like a fitful sea.  
  
The winged seraph bows her head in worry.  
  
He finds two stars.  
  
They are a bit brighter. They are almost blue.  
  
“Beautiful,” he whispers.  
  
He stares at them and waits. Waits for them to acknowledge him.  
  
He waits for them to _see_ him.  
  
He falls asleep not knowing if they did.  
  
He wakes in the morning and looks up at the impassive face of Mycroft Holmes, who is standing above him, casting a shadow.  
  
“This can’t continue,” Mycroft says gently. When he speaks again, he looks very nearly _kind_. “This is the last thing he would want... would have wanted. You _must_ see that.”  
  
He closes his eyes again until the shadow leaves.  
  
  
~~~~  
  
  
The next night that he lies there the moon is cowering.  
  
The wind wails through the tree above him, sounds like an ocean breaking itself upon sand and rock.  
   
The winged seraph won’t look him in the eye.  
  
He finds two stars.  
  
They are bright. They are blue.  
  
“Beautiful,” he whispers.  
  
He waits for them to see him.  
  
He falls asleep. He dreams.  
  
He dreams of falling to his knees in sand. He dreams of blood welling up through the grains.  
  
He dreams that the blood in the sand is a lie.  
  
He dreams of sinking his fingers into it.  
  
He wakes in the morning, flat on his stomach. His throat feels dry with dust. His eyes burn with grit. His hands hurt, cuts and scrapes filled with soil.  
  
The ground beneath him is wounded again.  
  
He rolls over when he hears the sound of footsteps rustling across the grass. He looks up at the weary face of Harriet Watson, who is standing above him, wringing her hands.  
  
“Mycroft told me... he hoped I might be able to help. I don’t think he realizes that you and I don’t really–” he watches as she swallows hard, “I know how much he meant to you. We _all know_. But...” he watches as she sucks in a wavering breath, “there was nothing anyone could do. Sherlock, are you listening to me?”  
  
He rolls onto his side until the sound of footsteps fades.  
  
  
~~~~  
  
  
He escapes all of their watchful eyes. Again.  
  
The next night that he lies there the moon hides.  
  
The wind lies, pretends to be something it’s not.  
  
And the damned winged seraph, with her downcast eyes and her clasped hands. A look of _guilt_. Her kind still _owes_ him.  
  
He finds two stars.  
  
They are very bright. They are very blue.  
  
“Beautiful,” he whispers.  
  
He waits for them to see him.  
  
He falls asleep believing they did.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this comes from the last stanza [Annabel Lee](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174151):
> 
> For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams  
> Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  
> And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes  
> Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  
> And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side  
> Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,  
> In the sepulchre there by the sea,  
> In her tomb by the sounding sea.


End file.
